Pseudo
by cryptictac
Summary: The night is getting old, and it would be yet another tired, lonely night for Gregory House if James Wilson wasn’t there. Slash.
1. Pseudo

**Title:** Pseudo  
**Author:** cryptictac  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson  
**Rating:** PG.  
**Words:** 1, 851.  
**Warnings:** None.  
**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything, just playing.

---

Gregory House is seated at his desk, half-facing the window, vertical drapes scissored partway closed. Specks of rain on the glass catch in the shimmering streetlights below, a myriad of crystals that faintly reflect on his tired, hard face. One hand clasped firmly around his cane, in his other is poised a rock glass of whiskey as he sits back in his seat with a thoughtful though typically calculating expression in his eyes as he studies his drink.

The night is getting old, and it would be yet another tired, lonely night for House if James Wilson wasn't there. Not that tired, lonely nights are anything new to House; they're not. The trawl of night time quietude typically invades his loneliness like a fever close to the bone, the silence amplifying his solitude the same way a finger can point accusingly and tauntingly at an innocent branded as guilty.

Over the years, Gregory has learned to shrug the unease loneliness brings, with his workaholicism or a stiff drink, both of which seem to shove the infection of loneliness into the darkest recesses of his mind. Problem is, the loneliness is still always _there_, and it irritates House because, infectious disease specialist though he is, it is one infection he can't seem to find a cure for. Work, Vicodin, whiskey -- all of these has proved to be more of a placebo than an antidote, much to House's chagrin. That or an antidote he has gradually built a resistance towards as the long, truthfully empty years have worn on.

His colleague, on the other hand; House isn't sure if Wilson is a placebo or an antidote. Or perhaps even a potential aphrodisiac. Whichever he is -- and Gregory doesn't _really_ want to delve too deeply into that line of thought, for that would burrow into a level of emotive thought he doesn't like gouging into -- House hasn't built a resistance up towards him.

Not yet.

"The good thing about hard liquor," Gregory says abruptly, breaking the silence and swilling his whiskey in small circles, "is that it burns the taste buds as much as it eats away at the brain cells. Even better, it rots away feelings of inadequacy, inhibition and doubt, and replaces those nasty inner-mind games with a sense of pseudo-confidence."

Wilson, standing near Gregory with his hands in his pockets draws his hands out and crosses his arms over his chest. He raises his brows, a small, amused smile on his lips to accompany the equally amused look in his dark eyes. "_Pseudo_-confidence? Is that what you call being a callous prick these days?"

House glances at him, remarking quickly, "Please, save the quality endearment for one of your oncology patients."

He brings the glass to his lips and takes another sip, giving him enough time to take note of the scoff his colleague gives and the casual shake of his head, finding himself -- like he has done a lot recently -- grateful for Wilson's company.

These night visits after work whenever they chance to finish on the same schedule have been getting more and more frequent, House has noticed, and like his dependence on Vicodin, he's been unconsciously growing more and more dependent on Wilson's company. It chases away the loneliness, that empty spot in him that nothing seems to fill. A spot that only the compassion of another person could fill. And really, only Wilson has patience enough to willingly be in Gregory's presence, the greatest demonstration of compassion anyone has ever and will ever offer Gregory House.

"Quality endearment," Wilson muses, turning his gaze to the window and watching the flecks of rain slowly shivering down in delicate rivulets. "Clearly the aid of alcohol doesn't alter for the better your warped ideas on what an endearment should be."

"Alcohol doesn't alter _anything_ for the better. Schmucks only think it does."

Wilson turns his head with a sharp snap of interest in his direction, just as Gregory expected him to. "Schmuck? Surely Dr. Gregory House doesn't place himself in the category of _schmuck_."

The whiskey burns Gregory's throat as he swallows and he flinches slightly at the sting, using the moment to steal himself. He's said too much. He hates it when he reveals something personal about himself, especially a personal _thought_ about himself, cryptic though it always is.

"Kudos to you for being on the ball, Wilson," he says with voice of whiskey-burned tightness, "though you're the one who said 'alter for the better'. I was merely making a rude generalisation."

Wilson gives him that knowing look of scepticism that always irritates House, replying coolly, "Oh, right. _Pseudo-confidence_."

"That was another rude generalisation."

"Much like me calling you a callous prick is a rude generalisation?"

"It's good to see you catching on so fast, Jimmy," Gregory remarks condescendingly, the use of the nickname an attempt to make light of the situation. "And what about your pseudo-confidence? Do you seek to lose yourself in such a thing, Wilson?"

"Well, I'm not the one drinking like you do every night."

That remark cuts Gregory. Loneliness rears its ugly head from the corner of his mind, a sudden simmering of a fever beneath the skin. The infection of loneliness. For that moment of awkward silence that passes between him and Wilson, Gregory feels exposed, as obvious and naked as a beacon and the urge to retort with a hurtful comment to his colleague about one of his three failed marriages tickles the tip of Gregory's tongue. It's so easy to hide behind being cold and callous. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, none of this 'turn the other cheek' crap.

He's defeated, however. Can't bring himself to be _that_ callous to Wilson. After all, Wilson is, _really_, House's only real friend. Even Gregory knows that such remarks should be kept at bay with people that are considered dear enough to be classed as 'friends'.

He holds Wilson's intense gaze for a moment before looking away, swigging back the drink for a deeper draught that leaves him breathless and fighting back a sharp cough as he swallows. He can feel Wilson staring at him, and in vain attempt to get Wilson to divert his attention Gregory throws back the last of the drink with a gulp and then slams the glass on his desk.

No such luck, however. Wilson knows Gregory too well to fall for his usually successful ploys of diversion. "This pseudo-confidence you speak of, it brings about the temporary measure of forgetting," Wilson says quietly. "Forgetting loneliness."

"Very analytical for an oncologist," House quickly remarks, trying to sound unscathed by the comment, though feeling anything but. "Do they pay you extra to sit by your patients' bedsides, analysing their psyche while pumping them with Campath-1H or Aminocamptothecin?"

If Wilson is abraded by that retort, he doesn't show it. He replies calmly, "You drink to forget."

"There's nothing to forget."

"Everyone has something they want to forget, House."

Gregory is beginning to feel highly defensive, attacked. "Which is why I don't have a life. No life, nothing to regret."

His colleague turns to face him front-on, dropping his arms to his side. "No life equals emptiness."

"No." The challenge posed to him from Wilson is making him on edge. He stands abruptly, leaning on his cane as he takes a step towards him. "No life equals no regrets."

A pause. "You wouldn't drink every night if you didn't have regrets."

From the intense look in his friend's eyes, House knows that he is speaking from experience. Gregory knows that he could keep fighting him but what truthfully would be the use in that? As much as House doesn't want to admit it, Wilson is right -- Gregory has a lot of regrets. A lot of misgivings that he drowns out with his obsession of work. Issues with the condition his accident left him in. Issues with his dependence on vicodin. Unresolved issues.

Gregory looks away, defeated once again -- the fever of loneliness bubbling in his veins -- and he confesses with a reluctant sigh, "Alcohol is company." Turning his head, he looks at the window and he sees the rain has started up again, a sheet falling diagonally from the black starless sky, the current of the wind pushing the rain in sporadic rhythms against the glass.

"Pseudo-company," Gregory adds in a mutter, slowly drawing his eyes from the window to meet Wilson's.

The intensity of the other's gaze has softened to an expression of complete understanding, and he replies to Gregory just as softly, "I know."

In that one response House can hear the pain of three failed marriages and the emptiness they brought Wilson, and for the first time he realises -- like a light suddenly clicking on -- that Wilson _understands_ him in a way no one else would. Or could. Or ever will. An antidote.

House's lips curve upwards in a slight smile, a recognition of his colleague's words, and he says in as soft a voice as Gregory House ever would dare to utter, "I know you know."

The broad smile Wilson offers him makes Gregory catch his breath for a moment, and when he feels his friend's hand land on his shoulder, strong fingers squeezing in a reassuring manner, he tries to tell himself it's just the effect of the drink that is causing his heart to beat faster (though he _knows_ that alcohol causes the heart to beat slower) and his hands to suddenly become slippery with a faint bathe of sweat. Not an antidote, rather an aphrodisiac.

"Go easy on the drink," Wilson murmurs to him. "It doesn't solve anything. You don't need that sort of pseudo-company."

House nods awkwardly and the feeling of awkwardness in him is obviously apparent, for Wilson lets him go after a moment and slips his hands into his pockets, stepping back. Gregory knows Wilson is going to take this chance to leave -- and he inwardly doesn't want him to, but he's too proud to admit such a thing -- and he steals himself, willing the fever of loneliness to ebb away into the dark corners where it belongs.

"One for the road," House says in a low voice, reaching for the whiskey bottle and dragging it towards him. Ignoring the fact that Wilson is looking at him with faint sadness, he pours himself another drink, glancing up only when he hears the other's footsteps heading towards the door.

"Wilson," he says as the man opens the door, one foot over the threshold ready to step out of the office. _Don't go_, Gregory wants to say. _I don't want to be lonely_. He can't say that. No, instead he offers a faint, short smile as he closes his hand around the glass, lifting it from the desk. "See you tomorrow, Jimmy."

Wilson nods with an expression of disappointment and defeat on his face and soundlessly turns away. He steps out into the corridor and the door clicks shut, closing House into the lonely, cold-feeling room. Suddenly realising how truly _empty_ the room is. How empty _he_ is.

Staring down at his drink, Gregory swills it a few times before setting it back on his desk with a clink, gripping his cane as he steps away from his chair. Gathering up his coat, he rounds his desk with a limped stride, lets himself out into the corridor and walks as quickly as he can to catch up with Wilson.

_To be continued  
---  
Please review_


	2. Aphrodisiac

**Title** Aphrodisiac  
**Chapter** 2?  
**Pairing** House/Wilson  
**Rating** M  
**Disclaimer** I don't own anything to do with "House, M.D." or anything affiliated with the show.

---

The corridor is eerie late at night when there are so few people around. The typically manned nurse's station is forlorn. There are no interns scurrying about nervously, nor beds being trolleyed to and from the elevator. No sound of shoes squeaking on the floor or the quiet chatter of self-important doctors that congregate outside patients' rooms when discussing the next course of action to take with their patient. To Gregory House, it amplifies his loneliness, each sole step that he takes echoing lonely down the long corridor like the sound of a lost child crying into the dark of night.

One thing House hates is the rhythm of his footsteps. Once upon a time, he could walk as straight and evenly as the next person, without pain, without hindrance. He used to walk with ease, not feigned confidence like he does now. Now he walks with the rigidity of bitterness, body language as sharp and caustic as he himself is.

He listens to the uneven "tap, tap-tap, tap" of his shoes on the floor, accompanied with the cold click of his cane and each step he takes seems to echo louder and louder -- his loneliness building into a crescendo as he tries to catch up with Wilson. The drink he chugged down back in his office doesn't help. Gregory feels somewhat sluggish, and his mind weary and his reflexes slightly off-kilter. Funny how he drinks to forget -- _pseudo-confidence_ -- and yet here he is, reminded as loud as a voice shouting into a megaphone just how _lonely_ he is. Desperate, really. For company, for reassurance, for --

Gregory doesn't know what he is desperate for. Another Vicodin, perhaps? Another drink? If he wanted either of them, he'd be back in the dark silence of his room, choking back tablets or pouring himself yet another hit of whiskey, or maybe even sculling the contents straight from the bottle by now. Or perhaps both.

_He who drinks alcohol and chows down pills at the same time is nothing short of an ignoramus_, he's always said to others in various arrogant ways. _Do as I say, not as I do_, has been another of his many catchphrases to reason away self-paradox. A man of contradictions -- of many _flaws_, more accurately -- and he's never been ashamed to be that way. Not outwardly, anyway. _Pseudo-confidence_.

Over the _tap, tap-tap, tap_ of his footfalls, he hears the elevator ding and with a muttered curse under his breath, he speeds up in vain to catch up with Wilson. He's going to feel the fool when face-to-face with Wilson -- _Not losing your face in that bottle of dram, then, House?_, Wilson is bound to smugly remark -- but Gregory's urgency for company -- _not pseudo-company, anything but pseudo-company_ -- is greater than considering consequences right now.

_Pseudo-company_. He tries to shake that thought from his mind as he rounds the corner and sees the elevator doors open, moments from closing. And there is Wilson, inside the elevator, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and staring up at the ceiling. House's breath catches slightly.

That's what he's desperate for. An antidote to his loneliness. An aphrodisiac. _Wilson_.

Biting his lip, House presses on, saying loudly as he nears the elevator and the doors begin to slide closed, "Have some decency. There's a cripple wanting to alight here."

Wilson pushes away from the wall with a look of mild surprise and quickly thumbs the _open_ button, the doors shuddering to a momentary stop before sliding back open again with a faint whirring sound. Not meeting Wilson's eyes, Gregory grunts quietly in pain -- his leg and back ache -- as he steps over the threshold and into the elevator, about-facing as he moves beside Wilson.

"What happened to your _pseudo-company_?" Wilson comments, hitting the _close_ button before he takes a step back and leans against the wall once more. House isn't looking at Wilson, but he can _feel_ the scrutiny of his colleague's eyes upon him. "Thought you were drowning yourself in liquor."

Gregory glances sideways at him with a deadpan expression as the door whirs shut, though he doesn't meet his eyes. He feels too ashamed to be that bold. Oddly. 

_Ashamed_.

He quickly shakes that word from his mind as the elevator jolts slightly. It begins to descend slowly and House remarks airily, "I felt like an argument. Problem with liquor is it doesn't bite back. It just burns your mouth and makes you want to pee a lot."

He sees out of the corner of his eyes Wilson crossing his arms defensively over his chest. "It really is something to be sought after only for the purpose of deliberate altercations."

"Isn't that what I only ever seek your company for, Wilson?"

"I think you're mistaking me for Cuddy."

House pointedly looks at Wilson's chest and remarks, "I always thought you were missing something."

Gregory hears his colleague scoff quietly as Wilson lolls his head to the side to look up at the numbers above the door that light up with each floor they lower to. After a moment of silence, Wilson says, "So, you followed me because you're somewhat drunk and angry about what we just talked about in your office, and now you want a person to vent your pent-up bitterness at?"

Why _did_ he follow Wilson? _Escape from pseudo-company. Seeking that aphrodisiac. It's always all about escape._ "Actually, no, I have kidney problems and you're just the thing that helps them flush out properly."

Wilson pushes away from the wall and stands closer to him. Under the man's dark-eyed perusal, House feels uneasy -- naked, again. Damn, he hates feeling naked, and having followed Wilson into this lift makes him feel all the more exposed. Ashamed.

_There's that word again._

Gregory looks away -- at the doors, at the walls, up at the numbers, down to his shirt, at _anything_ but Wilson. The silence in the elevator is thick and suffocating. It feels like they will never reach the bottom. _Say something, or turn and face the corner_, House wants to snap.

It's like Wilson has read his mind, for he speaks. "Why does everything you say have to be a sarcastic comeback, House?"

House, relieved for the break in quietness, is quick to reply, "It's more fun that way."

Wilson, much to House's chagrin, doesn't miss a beat. "Pseudo-confidence?"

House hates having his words used against him. He inwardly wishes he had never said anything about that back in the office. That was the problem with friends -- they listened, but they always remember the things one doesn't want used as salt to rub against a wound.

"How about making 'pseudo' your new catchphrase?" House says defensively, meeting Wilson's eyes for the first time since entering the elevator. "Dr. Jimmy Wilson, oncologist -- or perhaps, more accurately, 'pseudo-miracle worker'."

"House --"

"Or how about this: chemotherapy, the pseudo-cure to cancer."

House can see Wilson is getting angry, and Wilson retorts sharply, "Vicodin and alcohol: Dr. Gregory House's pseudo-escape from loneliness."

House freezes for a moment. Those words sting. Such truth, and this truth _hurts_. Another reason why he buries himself in his work -- the truth of life is painful and filled with bitterness, and why subject oneself to that when it can be ignored? Have a life of emptiness and the truth of life can never fully sink its fangs in. Except it can and will, because an empty life leaves one with nothing but the raw, harsh truth of reality to focus on. Another reason why Gregory has _addictions_ -- to escape reality.

Gregory looks away, feeling -- not for the first time that night -- defeated. Naked. Ashamed. Foolish. He should have stayed up in his office and drank himself blind. His placebo. The easy way to escapism -- no people to complicate things or dig up bones. Leaning on his cane, he habitually moves his other hand to his pocket and feels the bulge of the Vicodin bottle, suddenly desperate for a pill. Hydrocodone numbs things. Not just the physical pain but the dark storms in his head. It's his therapist. Another one of his placebos.

Just as he digs his hand into his pocket to pull the bottle out, the elevator jolts as it reaches the bottom floor and dings, the doors sliding open. House steps forward, intent on getting out of there as fast as he can. 

Wilson's hand lands on his shoulder and grips it. House, though he jumps at the sudden contact, defiantly tries to stride forth but the hand clenches tighter and just as defiantly pulls him back. Forced to turn, Gregory faces Wilson with a scowl on his face. 

In Wilson's dark eyes there is concern. It is written in the lines on his face and upon the terse poise of his lips. House hates it when his colleague gives him _that look_. Damn him, _damn him_ for being humane and showing _concern_. They hold eye contact long enough until the elevator dings again and the doors slide shut. Gregory feels that flutter in his chest and his breath hitches slightly again. That feeling of desperation rising in him once more; desperation for this aphrodisiac. Being no one else in the building has called for the elevator, they remain stationary, staring at each other.

"Yes?" Gregory finally says curtly after a moment of silence; silence that is as thick and heavy as a shroud.

Wilson continues to gaze at him heedfully, as if trying to discern what is rolling through Gregory's mind. The sound of pills rattle in the bottle as House screws the cap undone -- his hands are shaking slightly -- and he hurriedly throws a pill in his mouth, dry-swallowing with a grimace.

Wilson watches closely all the while with a tired look on his face. "Why do you do this to yourself?"

House shrugs -- trying to shrug away the man's hand still clasped on his shoulder -- and replies sarcastically, "Because it makes me feel good, Dr. Phil."

Wilson sighs wearily, close to defeat, and shakes his head. "But not because you want to."

"What's it to you, anyway?" House tries again to shrug his colleague's hand from his shoulder, though it does nothing but cause Wilson to tighten his grip further.

"Believe it or _not_, House, I am your friend. Which, quite frankly, is much more than you deserve. Typically, when one considers another to be something of a friend, there is a little thing called duty of care."

"You care for me fine, you're a _great_ pal, Jimmy -- you write me prescriptions."

Gregory sees the other's face wash over with an expression that is rare for Wilson -- shame. It's like House is staring at himself for that precise moment. "No," Wilson replies in a quiet, almost timid voice. "I… enable your addiction."

Loneliness, addiction -- addicted to Vicodin because he's lonely, addicted to loneliness because it's all he's ever known for such a long time. Because it's his safe place. His pseudo-confidence.

_Addiction_. He hates that word. Such a telling word, a truth he point-blank tries to ignore.

Gregory feels his discomfort grow -- this is going much too deep, much deeper than he would ever be comfortable dealing with. And like in any situation where he feels threatened by the imposition of emotion, he instantly tries to rise above it with sarcasm.

"Bad boy," House dryly remarks.

Wilson lets his hand slide from House's shoulder, a look of irritation on his sharp, angular face. "Can you just _stop_ being an arse for _one minute_?"

"Let's see. I took the hydrocodone--" House glances down at his watch "--roughly two minutes ago, so another thirteen minutes to go for the drug to filter into my blood stream and I might comply."

The sigh Wilson gives is a familiar one. House has heard the sound of it many times over; a deep draw in of breath and then an over-exerted exhale. The sigh of defeat, Gregory likes to think of it as. "Just… go back to your office, House. Back to your _pseudo-company_," Wilson advises tiredly. "I'm going home."

With that, Wilson takes a step forward, stretching his arm out to push Gregory out of the way before House moves in front of him, blocking his path. 

"Alright, alright," House replies abruptly, holding a hand up in surrender. He doesn't want Wilson to leave, not really. He doesn't want to go back up to the dark emptiness of his office, or to the placebo of his alcohol. "Alright, you win."

Halting in his tracks, Wilson says exasperatedly, "It's not about _winning_, Greg. _Everything_ to you is about _winning_, about getting others over a barrel, snuffing the life of help that people offer you with your predictable sarcasm. You have the ugliest case of pride I have ever seen in a person, House."

Gregory looks down as he toys the end of his cane on the carpeted elevator floor. A million sarcastic responses flood his mind but, for once, he keeps his mouth closed. The truth in Wilson's words -- the _shameful_ truth -- is too strong to deny. The desperation for this aphrodisiac is too insistent. The _need_ for an antidote for his loneliness is too urgent.

"You don't…" Though his head is turned down, he knows Wilson has stepped in closer towards him, feels his hand upon his shoulder again -- this time, gently. "You don't _have_ to do this to yourself."

"It's all I know," House confesses reluctantly with his eyes still trained on the floor, his voice quiet and pensive.

Wilson steps in closer and places his other hand on House's other shoulder. "No, it's not. It's all you _allow_ yourself to know. You weren't always like this. Before the accident, you were --"

"-- nice, pleasant, nowhere near as bitter," he snaps, upturning his head to look at his friend. "I've heard it all before, Wilson. Thanks for reminding me yet again."

Wilson gives that sigh of defeat again, looking stung at House's retort. He keeps his hands clasped on his shoulders, gripping firmly, and in spite of how bristly Gregory is the touch feels reassuring. He's forgotten how soothing genuine human touch can be, how comforting warm hands can feel. It's been too long to recall the last time he was truly _touched_. The longer Wilson's hands remain upon him, the more Gregory feels his defenses crumbling.

"I'm not trying to _remind_ you of anything," Wilson murmurs, another half-step taken in. "I'm just… I'm just telling you as it is -- you know me, Greg. Have I ever done anything but?"

Gregory sighs wearily, a part of him still fighting against what is happening, another part of him wanting it more than he needs air to survive. He shakes his head after a few moments and closes his eyes, suddenly tired. So tired. Exhausted. All his bitterness and emptiness, it has left him feeling completely depleted.

"All that Vicodin, alcohol -- you don't _need_ that stuff. All this pseudo-company, this wall you build up around yourself…"

House feels Wilson pulling on him slightly and in any other situation Gregory would have wrestled from his grip and made a testy remark, something about Wilson's marriages failing because he was secretly in the closet the whole time. But at this very moment, feeling exposed and vulnerable and having nowhere else to turn to, he submits; he slowly leans into the touch, slowly presses his forehead against Wilson's shoulder.

"You don't need…" Wilson's lips are by his ear and his breath is warm, low voice soothing to Gregory. And it's like anything with House -- all his dependence is met with addiction, with desperation. With _hunger_.

He pulls back just as Wilson says again, "You don't need all --" and Gregory cuts him off with a sudden kiss, lips on lips, eyes squeezed shut. Wilson utters a sound of surprise but House ignores it, pressing harder into the kiss. He begins to move his lips, feeding into the touch with growing urgency and, within a matter of minutes he is kissing Wilson desperately, almost violently, cane clattering to the floor as he reaches for Wilson with both his hands.

"House --" Wilson tries when he attempts to peel his lips from Gregory's, mouth claimed again harder and deeper as Gregory grips him tight and begins to push him backwards, limping with each frantic step. Wilson meets the wall and the kiss breaks for a moment, for a breath of air before their lips meet again, this time both of them feeding from each other with equal need. Clawing at each other, gasping between hitched breaths, bodies pressed against each other hard and hot.

The elevator rapidly becomes stuffy, beads of desperate sweat inking along their foreheads as they exchange muffled groans and grunts around their entwining tongues. This is the aphrodisiac House yearns and he wants _more_ -- though the more they kiss, the harder it becomes to catch their breath and slowly the kiss dwindles to a soft caress of bruised, puffy lips before they break away. House, his eyes still shut, presses his forehead against Wilson's, gasping, still clutching him tight by the scruff of his jacket.

Wilson gulps loudly, places his hands on Gregory's arms and gently urges him away. "House --"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"_Speak_. Don't _speak_."

House catches his breath and slowly lets Wilson's jacket go. He pulls back -- looking at the floor, too ashamed to meet the man's eyes -- and he steps away with a pained limp, dropping his hands to his side. "It's time to go home," he mutters. "Time to…"

Wilson pulls away from the wall and shakily stoops down, clutches House's cane and stand up again. "House," he begins, handing the cane to him, "I think --"

"Just don't speak," Gregory cuts in as he retrieves his cane from his colleague and leans it against the floor. Turning around awkwardly, he reaches for the elevator buttons and pushes the _open_ button, the door whirring open and a cool rush of fresh air breathes in, bathing over Gregory's sweat-slicked skin.

"House!" Wilson calls as Gregory begins to limp out of the elevator. Gregory ignores him, striding towards the entrance doors. "House! Greg! Wait!"

He's still breathless when he reaches the door, exiting with the sound of Wilson's footfalls jogging behind him to catch up. Stepping out into the rain-soaked evening -- a cold wind that whorls around his still-shaking body -- he feels Wilson grab his arm and he's whirled around, facing his disheveled looking friend.

"What? What do you want?" Gregory brusquely asks, shrugging from Wilson's grip.

"I…" House can tell that Wilson is confused -- as confused as House himself feels -- and he waits for Wilson to complete his sentence. Instead, his colleague finishes in a defeated voice, "I'll… I'll see you tomorrow."

House holds his gaze for a piercing moment but he doesn't say anything. Turning on his heel he begins to walk off into the cold night, away from Wilson, away from all of _that_. The taste of James Wilson's lips still upon his tongue. Still wanting _more_ but too confused to think clearly about it right now. He just wants to head home, back to his loneliness, back to his pseudo-company, back to _think_.

He will talk about this with Wilson tomorrow. Maybe.

The word _maybe_ echoes in his mind with his limped footsteps on the rain-drenched footpath.

---  
_Please review_


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